Frozen
by alee1
Summary: Buffy's vignette; companion to "Melted"


Title: Frozen  
Author: alee  
Rating: um, I'd say R for a little imagery and naughty language.  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just trying to work with Joss and co. have given us lately.  
  
Summary: companion piece to "Melted" (which can be found at fanfiction.net), this is from Buffy's point of view.  
  
Timeline/Spoilers: Assume everything in canon through Season 6 so far is fair game -- can't give you specific episode titles because... well, frankly because I haven't been keeping up with all the little details this season.   
  
Author's Notes: This is just my way of trying to work through some of my recent "issues" with BtVS. It's also for Janice, who so flatteringly asked if she could write a companion piece to "Melted" when I posted it about 18 months ago -- hope this meets your expectations ;)   
  
Feedback: As always, deeply cherished at K401alh@aol.com  
  
FROZEN  
It was after I came home that I saw it. I had made my way tiredly up to my room, smoothing the edge of the rumpled comforter just enough to sit. Collapsing wearily onto its uneven surface, I caught a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror across the room from the bed. Staring blankly at my reflection, I was overwhelmed with the sudden realization that... this was not me. It sounds trite, I know, like something from the Hallmark movie of the week -- "One day she looked into the mirror, and didn't recognize the person she saw" -- the latest special on amnesia, or dementia, or whatever PC disease-of-the-moment that wreaks havoc with the mind, but it's true. I remember rising shakily to my feet, crossing the sudden vast expanse of berber carpeting in my radioactive bride's maid dress. I walked until I could go no farther, until the edge of the dresser bumped against the tops of my thighs, and then I leaned closer. My breath fogged the mirror as I stared, wide eyed, hoping against hope that this sight before me was an illusion, a demonic trick, the latest in a long line of Hellmouth-themed practical jokes... but it wasn't. This pale imitation -- and I DO mean pale in both the literal and figurative sense --of the girl I once was, the woman I once was, the SLAYER I once was remained, taunting me with her substance. I closed my eyes, squeezing them tightly together as if by sheer force of will I could change the image they relayed to my brain, but when I opened them once more nothing had changed. I was still there, and the ME that I was looking for was nowhere in sight. I raised a trembling hand to my head, pulling the pins from the artificial bun I had so carefully placed at the end of my newly shorn locks that morning. Tossing the hair piece carelessly to the side, I ran shaking fingers through the stubbly ends of the remnants of my natural locks, my lips beginning to quiver as my eyes filled with tears. As my vision blurred, mercifully dulling the sight before me, I saw the last few years of my life replayed, in hideously uncompromising technicolor.  
  
First, of course, there was Angel. Angel. Just thinking his name sends a shiver through my throat -- I can almost feel the ache there, the desire to say his name, to have a REASON to say his name... I knew he was going to leave before he did, knew it even before we made love for the first and last time. I felt int in the very marrow of my bones. He would leave, because I didn't have the courage to love him as completely as he loved me. Oh, I can't deny that I loved him as much as I could, more, even, than I thought my feeble heart could bear, but there was always something between us. It was a nameless foe, the white elephant right under our noses that neither one of us wanted to face, and only he could name. I remember all the times that he tried to build a safety net beneath us, tried to "warn" me away from the darker side of his nature. How many times, and in how many ways, did he allude to his demonic nature, to the fact that ours could never be a "normal" life? And what did I do? Did I address his fears, did I reassure him that it was ALL of him, demon and angel alike, that I loved? No. I didn't. All I could do was offer some silly school-girl prattle about seeing only him in my future. In so neatly avoiding the true conversation we needed to have, I accomplished two things: I kept myself from having to face the fact that I wasn't mature enough to truly accept all that he was, and I drove him away as surely as if I had sent him to Hell, again. I know that he left because of my weakness, my fear, and I would give anything to take back every one of those ill-fated conversations, to replace my superficial platitudes with soul-deep affirmations of my love, my commitment, my acceptance-- but such is not to be. When he left, I mourned. Sadly, though, it was the loss of self for which I grieved as much as the gaping hole in my heart. High school was over, my circle of friends was drifting apart, my experiences with faith, and later the Inituiative convinced me that being "The Slayer" didn't make me so unique after all... Without Angel, who was I? I threw myself into another relationship, I joined the team and became the perky, beeper-carrying Slayer-on-Call, I curled my hair; it was all a vain attempt to run from the fact that I had a dark side, too, and I had just lost the one person in my life who could truly understand.  
  
Things only got worse from there. I fought Adam. I killed Adam. I encountered the First Slayer. I met Dracula. I became the object of Spike's twisted affection. My mother died. I found out my "sister" wasn't really my sister after all. Riley left. Each ugly twist and turn in the sordid game of Chutes and Ladders that is my life served to confirm one inescapable fact; to paraphrase Angel, "I can walk like a woman, but I'm not one". I'm something else entirely, something darker and more primal. I'm the Slayer, the Huntress, Herne's daughter, and so many other titles that the mind can't hold them all. I am the substance of cave paintings, of folklore, of nightmares. Death is my Gift, and I give it well. The more I hunt, the more I enjoy it, and the more I fear it. It's a terrifying day when you realize that the reason that you can hunt the predatory demons so well is that you are the ultimate predator yourself. Fast reflexes, keen night vision, instinct for the hunt, and affinity for finding your prey even when following the coldest trail-- these are not the marks of a sunny school-girl, but of something far more menacing. How many times have I awoken, shivering with the remnants of ecstasy, the flutterings between my thighs mute testament to the power of my very own version of the wet dream? But it's not a lover's caress I dream of, nothing so innocuous as that stirs my blood; it's visions of pain and death that paint the canvas of my mind's eye, shattering piles of ash that coat my thighs with desire. Even worse, sometimes I dream of the one time Angel fed from me, near death and almost insensate he plunged his fangs into my throat, gripping my body tightly in the unrelentig grasp of his arms. We fell to the floor together, and I could feel my consciousness dimming with every pulse of my heart, but the one thought racing though my mind was MORE!! Dear God, how I have longed for that again. I know he has, too, and that he must have fought his desire for that experience every moment we were together. Foolish girl that I was, I denied us both the ultimate expression of intimacy until it was too late to change the course of destiny. I often think that perhaps, had I offered my blood sooner, before the threat of final death made the pleasure a grim necessity, I might have persuaded him to stay, but then that's the beauty of hindsight. So, I turned my attentions to poor Riley, and not surprisingly my churlish spare emotions were not enough to keep him. Once again I was alone, without even the house-of-cards identity I had so recently constructed, and I was left to face the turmoil of my mother's death, and my sister's protection, while I held Spike at arm's length. It really was a relief to plan my death, to implement my final escape route, but even that joy was short-lived and I was once more returned to face the truths I had been running from with such gusto for so long. I returned to this world bitter, and frightened, and more afraid of my own nature than ever before, and... there was Spike.  
  
No need to deny myself any longer. I wasn't of this world, and so it's moral laws held no sway over me. I lived my life in the darkness, and the darkness had consumed me. I know what my friends would think, know how they would revile Spike for "taking advantage of me", but I know the truth. With Spike, I don't have to pretend. I can be as feral as the mood strikes me, as nasty as the situation decrees, and have no worries about how my behaviour might frighten him. I think I did manage to shock him the first time I had sex; I use the singular pronoun "I" because that is the most accurate description of the events. I tossed him around, I yanked him into my embrace, I opened his fly, and I took what I wanted. For all his innuendo, and history of evil, I've come to realise that Spike is actually rather conservative in his tastes. A little missionary, a little woman-on-top, and occasional exercise in sexual calesthenics involving the two of us standing and a wall at our back, but for the most part... well, let's just say I think he was taken aback by my ferocity. I'm sure he never expected to leave an encounter with a human sporting more bites and bruises than she did, but that just brings me back to the fact that I'm not really human. What a relief it was to be able to set myself free, to engage in carnal passions without fear of broken ribs, or punctured lungs, or any other number of injuries that would incapacitate, if not kill, a less resilient partner. As we fucked night after night, I wondered what Angel would say if he could see me now, what his reaction would be at the sight of his good girl gone bad. When I realised how far into my transformation I was, I decided to make it official: I cut my hair. Borrowing the tradition of a thousand cultures, I severed my locks to mourn the passing of the me that once was. With no more reminders of the me I used to be, I was free to embrace my new nature, revel in the glory of the night... and then Riley came back to town.  
  
I'd like to say that seeing him once more brought me to my senses, made me realise how unhealthy my life was, but that would be a lie. No, the truth was that the sight of one Angel-substitute made me realise how inadequate the current model was, as well. So, I decided to dump Spike, and though I tried to let him down easy -- after all, it's not his fault that he's the wrong demon to truly satisfy me -- but in the end I think he was hurt more than Riley ever was. I didn't care.   
  
Staring back at my reflection once more, I am struck still by the fact that I do not recognize this woman, this thin, frail creature who cannot or will not take steps to replace what is missing in her life. I'm frozen, held in check by the sins of my past and the fears of my present. My salvation waits at the end of the phone, or a short trip to a town two hours away that I once called home. The ice that's filled my heart these past months weighs me down, and roots my feet into the soil. How can I change what I see? How can I reclaim the face in the mirror? The answer is the same as it has always been, both astonishingly simple and impossibly complex. Angel. He's what I need, what I want... what I mean to have. 


End file.
